What Friends Are For
by Mariole
Summary: Book canon gapfiller. A look behind the scenes at the formation of the Conspiracy, and Merry preparing the house at Crickhollow to receive its new owner. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

"_You can trust us to stick to you through thick and thin—to the bitter end. And you can trust us to keep any secret of yours—closer than you keep it yourself. But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. We are your friends, Frodo." _

—"_A Conspiracy Unmasked," The Fellowship of the Ring_

Chores finished at last, Merry stood in the stall, and stroked the soft neck of his pony. Dandy ignored the caress, blowing and stamping once as he dug eagerly into his oats. Munching sounds came from every stall in the crowded shed; all six ponies were happily bedded for the night. Merry inhaled the fragrance of clean straw, laid down only that morning when Merry brought the little cavalcade up from Buckleberry village. The sweet scent of alfalfa mingled with the musty odor of oats and soothing smell of ponies. Merry stroked Dandy's neck once more, then edged out of the stall.

The rear wall of the shed was crowded with gear: ropes and bridles hung from pegs; bags of tackle and dry goods bulged, ready to strap on; burnished saddles rested on sawhorses along with their (as yet empty) saddlebags. These last would hold spare clothes and marching rations for those going on the journey. Merry let them lie; it seemed unlikely that Frodo would set out the very next day. Merry was sure he'd want to rest for a while after his two-day trek—but set out soon, he would. Merry could hardly help but notice how anxious Frodo had been at his goodbye party at Bag End. Part of it was concern over Gandalf's absence—but only part. The rest of it was worry over what he must do.

The first communication of Frodo's plans, sent six months ago by Quick Post, was still as fresh in Merry's mind as if he had just read it.

Astron 19, Trewsday

Great Smials, Tuckborough

Merry,

Worst fears realized. Mad Baggins imminent. Can you be at _The Glutted Pig_ in Bywater this Highday? Collect Fatty along the way if you can; I shall write him directly after you. You _must_ hear this for yourself.

Pip

"Mad Baggins" was their codeword for Frodo's potential disappearing act, something Merry had feared ever since the original "Mad Baggins" had disappeared in a flash of white light in front of one hundred and forty-four startled hobbits seventeen years ago, and never been seen since. Merry wasn't certain, but he surmised that not even Frodo had any idea of the old hobbit's whereabouts these days. His references to Bilbo at the birthday party three days ago had been vague and wistful. If Frodo meant to follow in the footsteps of his former guardian, as sometimes seemed likely, Merry couldn't see how he meant to find him.

In fact, Frodo's growing restlessness the previous year had alarmed Merry to the extent that he had recruited the loyal Sam to keep his eyes open.

"You can't ask me to spy on my master!" Sam hissed, keeping his voice low out of deference to the topic, despite his horror.

"Not _spy_," Merry whispered back, with equal reserve and agitation. He had slipped out of Bag End during one of his frequent visits, and took the opportunity to corner Sam in the lower garden. "I wouldn't ask you to do anything intrusive. Just… keep your eyes open. Notice if he seems to be preparing for any long trips. If he mentions traveling, try to find out where he's thinking of going."

Sam made a wry face; clearly the notion of overstepping his bounds was repugnant to him.

Merry tried another tack. "I'm sure you don't want to lose Frodo, any more than I do."

That observation brought Sam over to Merry's way of thinking at once and completely. Whether it was alarm over losing the master he loved, or dread of acquiring the Sackville-Bagginses as a replacement, Sam had been a faithful correspondent ever since. He sent his carefully scrawled reports to Pippin, who relayed the contents to Fatty and Merry as quickly as the Post allowed. Of Frodo's closest friends, Folco in Bywater lived nearest to Bag End, but he was such a rattle that Merry feared to include him in the business; he was likely to blurt out the entire scheme to Frodo some night after he'd had one too many glasses of port.

All that Fall, Sam's letters were filled with news of Frodo's walks, his purchases, his mood—and particularly his visitors. Though it went against local custom, Frodo regularly invited any traveling Dwarves in for a meal, or bought them a round at the pub. He quizzed them carefully on news from beyond the borders, far more than any normal hobbit would take an interest in. Yet whatever Sam had been able to observe or overhear seemed to reveal nothing more than a general curiosity as to the state of affairs Outside. From what Merry could tell, if Frodo was indeed planning to wander, he might be equally likely to set out West as East, or even South.

Merry relaxed somewhat when winter set in. Not even Frodo, restless as he was, would be mad enough to run off to Wilderland during winter. Despite this, Merry watched him anxiously all through Yule, when Frodo joined the Brandybucks as usual for the celebrations at Brandy Hall. Frodo laughed and joked with his young relations as usual. There was nothing in his eyes or manner to suggest unhappiness or discontent. Nevertheless, Merry listened uneasily as Frodo collected some of his younger cousins round the hearth, and began to relate to them the thrilling tale of Bilbo's adventure in the Lonely Mountain. He told it well; his small audience was rapt. When his voice sank low, describing Bilbo creeping down the passage towards unseen danger, Merry found the excitement in Frodo's voice so keen, he was forced to leave the room to cover his distress.

-0-0-0-

To say that Pippin's note the following Spring filled Merry with alarm would be roughly equivalent to admitting that the Invasion of the White Wolves had been something of an inconvenience. The foreboding that Merry had been suppressing all winter flared up full force, so he wondered how he got through the day. Merry settled his affairs as quickly as he might, and set out late the following morning for Budgeford. Fatty welcomed him warmly, but could supply no further information; his letter from Pippin had been equally cryptic. Despite this, they speculated into the evening.

_Imminent_, Pippin had written. Merry's stomach shrank into a knot of nerves. Frodo was the closest thing to a brother that Merry had; he couldn't imagine life without him. _Imminent_. He hardly got a wink of sleep that night, wondering if Frodo even now might be passing him on the Road, heading east.

He and Fatty were up betimes, and saddled their ponies for the long trek to Bywater. They reached the eastern outskirts at dusk. Fortunately, the tiny and sparsely frequented _Glutted Pig_ was situated on the eastern edge of town. _The Green Dragon_ at the farther end was by far the more popular establishment, which is doubtless why Pippin wished to avoid it for a secret meeting.

They left their ponies with a farrier across the way. Belly fluttering with butterflies, Merry pushed open the battered door, Fatty on his heels. The pub was fairly crowded, this being Highday. Knots of gaffers and tradesmen clustered on barrels at the bar, or round game boards. A few of them shot narrow looks at the newcomers; Merry supposed that gentlehobbits were not part of this pub's regular custom. He peered through the drifting weed smoke, to spot a splash of yellow seated at one of the pub's two private booths. Such a brilliant waistcoat could only belong to his dapper cousin. Merry wound his way to the table, whilst Fatty turned aside to have a word with the proprietor.

Merry reached the high-backed partition to the booth, and started. Pippin, situated so he could see the door, looked up and smiled. What Merry was not prepared for was Sam Gamgee, sitting across from him in the shadows. Sam looked up, his brown eyes filled with misery, his plain, honest face twisted in worry. He fidgeted with an unlit pipe, as if he couldn't keep his hands still. The pint before him was hardly touched, though Pippin's was nearly empty.

Merry stared. "Sam."

Sam nodded, brusque with nerves. "Mr. Merry."

Merry slid onto the bench next to Pippin. His heart had begun to race. "He… he hasn't _gone_ already?" So fixed was Merry on this ultimate tragedy, his muddled brain couldn't come up with any other explanation for Sam Gamgee to have come so far from his usual haunts, looking so dejected.

Sam shook his head, though he looked no less miserable. "No, Mr. Merry, he's not. That is to say, not _yet_."

"Yet." Merry's head whirled. "Then, he _is_ going?"

Sam nodded unhappily. "I heard it myself."

"_Overheard_ it," Pippin clarified with a smile. "Good old Sam."

Merry found it hard to breathe. _Imminent_. He licked his lips. "When?"

"That's just the trouble, Mr. Merry. He don't know yet. Mr. Gandalf—"

"Gandalf!" Merry cried. Pippin elbowed him sharply in the ribs, and shot him a narrow look. Merry lowered his voice, and leaned closer. "Gandalf is here?" he whispered to Sam.

Sam nodded dismally. "Got here last week. He and Mr. Frodo had a powerful lot of talk, and it all ended with Mr. Frodo needing to leave the Shire—perhaps forever." Sam swallowed. "That's a hard thing to ask of anybody, even someone as knowledgeable about the world Outside as Mr. Frodo. He feels it cruelly, too; wanders about the place, touching everything as if to say goodbye."

Merry heard the pulse of blood in his ears. _Forever_. He took a breath to speak, when he was interrupted.

"Sam!" Fatty appeared at the side of their table, a full pitcher of ale in one hand and two empty glasses in another. He slid onto the bench next to Sam. "What a pleasant surprise. That's too bad of you, Pippin, not letting us know he would be here. How are you getting on, lad? How's the Gaffer?"

Though Merry was pleased that Fatty and Sam got on so well, his impatience could not stand the strain. He cut across their discourse somewhat icily. "That will keep, Fatty. Sam was just about to tell us about Frodo's plans to leave the Shire."

Fatty started. "Oh. It's got as far as plans, has it?"

"Only that Mr. Frodo has got to go." Sam's voice held all the wretchedness Merry felt in his heart. "That's the only thing what's been settled."

"_Got_ to go?" Fatty blinked. "Why?"

"On account of, well…" Sam looked nervously at the other patrons. No one was observing them. The drone of conversation and clatter of dice would have made their quiet exchange impossible to overhear, unless the person was standing directly over them. Nevertheless, Sam hesitated before dropping his voice still lower, "On account of something what old Mr. Bilbo left behind."

Merry felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. _Bilbo_.

In a flash, his mind whisked back to the day his teenaged self had been walking along a Hobbiton lane, and had seen the most inexplicable thing of his life to date: the old hobbit had disappeared, right into thin air. Merry, after sneaking along in the bushes, had then discovered what no one else in the Shire knew: that Bilbo possessed a magic ring. Merry had often wondered about it since, and done his best to find out more about it—quietly, on his own. He'd never mentioned what he'd learned to any other hobbit, not even to Frodo.

Merry blinked, coming back to the present. His cousins were listening eagerly, leaning forward to catch every word. Yet no secret knowledge lit up their faces, as Merry was sure his must have done when the memory hit him. Sam would have noticed his expression change, but he was gloomily eying the tabletop.

"I can't tell ye more'n that," Sam was saying. "Not here. It can't be anywhere anyone can overhear us—it's that secret."

Fatty asked, "Will a parlor do? I asked the proprietor to set up a supper room for us. I don't know about you lot, but I was getting ready to eat my own pony."

"Cully wouldn't be too happy about that," Pippin observed.

"Nor would I, when I had to walk home," Fatty added.

Merry had no tolerance for anything off the subject. He said to Sam, "But because of this… thing, Frodo _has_ to go? Even though he doesn't really want to?"

Sam nodded. "Mr. Gandalf is after him to come up with a plan—"

"Whoa, wait a minute." Fatty broke off pouring out ales to stare at Sam. "_Gandalf_ is here?"

"As I told the others when you weren't by, Mr. Fatty," Sam said, "that's what made the change. Old Mr. Gandalf found out somewhat that means Mr. Frodo has got to leave soon. And when he goes…" Sam swallowed. "I'm going with him."

Merry felt he was sinking into cold river water. "_You_… are going with him?"

"On account of Gandalf catching him eavesdropping," said Pippin with glee, "and hauling him right through the window!"

Fatty grinned, topping up Pippin's mug after filling Merry's and his own. "I have _got_ to hear this story!"

"Oh, it's worth hearing." Pippin wriggled with excitement. "Why do you think I insisted you hear it for yourselves? Tell him the best part, Sam."

Sam stared at Pippin, befuddled. Merry shared his emotion. What in all of this wretched business could possibly be considered good?

"You know." Pippin nudged Sam's elbow. "What Gandalf said, just before he caught you. About those he could trust."

Sam hung his head. "Some trust I'm showin', a-sneaking off behind my master's back after he asked me not to breathe a word. He'll have old Gandalf turn me into a spotted toad right enough, sure as my name's Gamgee."

"He _said_," Pippin interrupted, taking over the tale, "that Frodo oughtn't go alone. 'You must take friends you can trust and who are willing to go into peril.' Well," Pippin beamed round the table, "that's _us_!"

Merry gaped, then looked quickly at his companions. Sam glumly studied the tabletop. Fatty had chosen to avoid Pippin's eye, taking a long quaff of his ale. Merry hesitantly turned towards his seatmate. "Peril, Pippin? He actually said, 'peril'?"

Pippin nodded, missing the point. "He did. At least, that's how Sam told it to me. 'Willing to go by his side into unknown perils'—wasn't that what you told me, Sam?"

Sam mumbled, "That were it, close enough."

Merry shook his head. "He will never allow it."

Pippin pursed his lips. "It's not a matter of _allowing_, Merry. There's no one in the Shire like Frodo. I for one am not prepared to let the dear old hobbit trot off to certain peril all unguarded."

"He'll never go for it," said Merry with grim assurance. "He obviously intended to go alone; clearly that's why Gandalf was cautioning him against it. But you know Frodo: stubborn, secretive, and unreasonably overprotective. He'd never take any of us with him into _peril_."

"Sam is going," Pippin argued.

"Only because he was caught red-handed. But Frodo won't want to take anyone else. Am I right, Sam? He's not intending to discuss this with us?"

Sam shook his head. "He told me to keep it dead secret."

"There you go." Merry threw up his hands. "If we let on that we know anything about his intended removal, not only will he try to give us the slip in the best Mad Baggins tradition, but he's likely to leave out Sam as well, once he learns he's blabbed his plans to us, against orders."

Sam looked up in horror. "Oh, no, sir! Please don't say a word. I couldn't bear it if he went all on his own."

Merry patted Sam's arm soothingly. "Nor I. We'll just have to come up with another way of helping him."

Fatty looked up suspiciously. "How?"

Merry mulled. "We'll form a… conspiracy of sorts—friends who want to help Frodo. We'll watch over him much as we have done, but when he decides to make his move, we'll be ready for him."

"Ready in what way?" Fatty said warily. "You don't think you can keep him from leaving, do you?"

"It's not even a possibility," said Pippin. "Wait until you hear the full story; you'll see that he has no choice."

"We can't keep him from going," said Merry. "Therefore we must go, too. But Frodo mustn't know anything about it until the very last moment. That's the only way to ensure that he doesn't make some mad dash on his own, leaving all his friends behind."

For the first time that evening, Sam's face showed a lessening of distress. Merry felt reassured by his tacit approval.

"But… leaving." Fatty looked unhappily into his ale. "Are you certain that's wise? We have obligations, you know. We can't just throw off everything to disappear into who-knows-where, possibly for the rest of our lives. What about our families? There are others who depend upon us, my dear hobbits, besides poor Frodo."

Sam's expression, which had momentarily lightened, returned to its anxious frown.

"Some things outweigh family obligations," said Pippin calmly. "The Great Smials will scrape by somehow without my help. Frodo will not."

Merry gave Pippin a small smile. Something passed between them; a flicker of understanding so profound it made all further discussion unnecessary. He returned his gaze to the fretful Fatty.

"We needn't _all_ go," Merry said quietly. Beside him, he heard both Pippin and Sam let out a sigh of relief. "In fact, we might well prefer to keep a contact here in the Shire who knows our business—someone who can report what we are up to, yet won't try to turn us aside from our course."

Fatty instantly looked happier. "Oh, well, look no farther! It's well enough for you lot to run off; you have relations galore. But there's really only me to carry on for dear old Dad. I _couldn't_ leave him and Mum to manage the farm on their own. It wouldn't be fair."

"That's settled then," said Pippin. "The Conspiracy takes shape. Merry and I shall join dear Sam in helping Frodo meet whatever dangers will beset him. And you, Fatty, shall remain behind to prevent as many people as possible from learning what we are up to for as long as you can manage it."

"After which," said Merry, "you will have to explain our decision to our families." He gave Fatty a crooked smile. "Are you still up to volunteering for the task, my good fellow?"

"Oh, absolutely." Fatty took another pull of his ale. "I'll get Saradoc roaring drunk, convey the news, and nip off to Budgeford before his hangover clears. That amount of danger is about my measure. Now, you lot…" He eyed the three others by turn. "Are you certain that you intend to go through with this? Leave the Shire." He paused, mulling as if in disbelief. "That's… almost never been done. There was Bilbo, of course, and Pippin's Great-Uncle Hildifons, but hardly anyone more."

"There will be four more very shortly," said Pippin stoutly. "It's no less than Frodo deserves."

Sam's eyes glistened, his gratitude obvious. Merry smiled, as proud of his young cousin as he'd ever been.

The very rotund and red-faced proprietor appeared at their table, startling them all. "Your room is ready, Mr. Bolger."

"Excellent." Fatty put down his mug. He gave the others a sly smile. "Now that our roles and responsibilities are assigned, perhaps it's time to learn what we have signed up for."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Fatty." Sam followed him out of the booth. "I'll tell you everything I know."

_And I_, Merry thought, _might have something to tell _you_—if this relic of Bilbo's turns out to be what I think it is._

He followed the proprietor down a narrow passage. The close-set walls cut off the buzz of sound from the public room, setting it firmly behind him. It seemed almost as if he had entered a tunnel, in its way no less frightening than the one Bilbo had forced himself to creep down all those years before. Just that quickly, Merry felt that he truly was turning his back on the Shire, shutting it out, going forward into the dark to do what he must do.


	2. Chapter 2

Merry's fears for an early departure were significantly eased when Frodo announced his decision to purchase a house. This communication came, oddly enough, not from Sam—whose messages had fallen off of late, probably due to his discomfort at relaying information about Frodo now that he had been found out. No, the first Merry knew of his cousin's evolving plans was through a letter from Frodo himself.

Thrimidge 7  
Bag End, Hobbiton

My dear Merry,

I have something to tell you that will come as something of a surprise. Forgive me for not being more honest with you, but it is hard to own up to one's imprudent behavior.

The truth is, I have been living beyond my means for quite some time. Recently some speculations of mine that I had hoped would set me right went wrong and—well, the sad fact is that I had to sell Bag End. I have already contacted the S-Bs; you can imagine how Lobelia leaped at the chance. The particulars are still being negotiated, but the sale itself is an absolute fact. I have decided that my departure date will be Bilbo's and my next birthday, after which I mean to return to Buckland. I couldn't bear to part with dear Bag End before then.

Now, I don't want to hear a word about you trying to bail me out. I have made my choices and I must face the consequences of my actions. What I would like from you is simply this: Would you be kind enough to look out for a place for me? Something small and easy to keep; I shouldn't like to repeat my mistakes. I require only a little hole or a house with a bit of garden. More than a bit would be nicer, as that would give Sam something to do. Yes, Sam means to come with me. I know it's hard to believe that he would ever leave the Gaffer, but I imagine his aversion to Bag End's new tenants tipped the scales in my favor. That is the main reason I wouldn't want to live in the Hall. I have got used to having grounds, and I'm not sure I would feel right if I didn't have some land of my own, for Sam to fix up however he pleases.

I'm very sorry, Merry. I know this letter must cause you some distress. But be assured that the sale of Bag End will give me a comfortable sum to live on, for as long as I shall need it. The consolation of having you near at hand is no small benefit. On the whole, I think I can make the change without too much pain.

Please give my best regards to Saradoc and Esmeralda. I shall see you shortly, I suppose, as soon as you have located some properties you wish to show me.

I am, as always, your devoted cousin,

Frodo

Merry read the letter through twice. Frodo's decision to sell Bag End astounded him; he had assumed Frodo would leave it vacant, as Bilbo had done. This, more than anything else, convinced Merry that Frodo had no expectation of ever returning to the Shire, once he left it.

Merry took a steadying breath. "My dear, sweet hobbit," he murmured, shaking his head. As fabrications went, this one was well done; if Merry didn't know the truth, he might have believed the story himself. Quite brave of Frodo to take this tack; Merry could only imagine what his parents would have to say about their former ward's reckless mismanagement of his money. And Frodo was right; the letter was distressing, but for reasons other than what he supposed. The finality of what he was about to attempt sank into Merry as it never had before.

All the same, Frodo's words brought him a measure of comfort. His cousin did not intend to leave Hobbiton until September. Surely he would not go to the trouble of acquiring a house if he did not mean to live in it, at least for a while. Merry toyed briefly with the notion that Frodo might be sending him on a wild goose chase simply to throw him off the track, then dismissed the idea as hopelessly convoluted. Frodo had no reason to suppose that Merry suspected anything, and Merry was confident that Sam wouldn't let slip anything about the Conspiracy. Frodo had therefore written what Merry supposed would be his public explanation of events. It was reassuring to learn that the danger was not so pressing that Frodo could afford to spend one last summer at Bag End. It also provided the best clue he'd had to date as to Frodo's eventual destination.

Merry tapped the letter thoughtfully. _East_. Frodo meant to depart east; why else would he choose Buckland? Merry closed his eyes, momentarily relieved. Frodo was coming here; he wouldn't simply vanish.

Merry sat a moment to collect himself, then readied himself for action. First, he must convey the news to Fatty and Pippin. Chances were that Frodo had written them separately, but Merry wanted to make sure they knew the whole. Afterwards, he must decide what his demeanor must be when he broke the news to his parents. They would be horrified; Merry felt a twinge over all he would put them through that year, but confessing the truth was impossible. Merry must carry on with the deception as best he could.

After that, Merry must get onto this house-hunting business. Here he felt all the luck of his inside knowledge, for he knew exactly what Frodo was looking for, perhaps even better than Frodo did.

-0-0-0-

"We can improve the kitchen," Merry said, showing Frodo through it to the back door. "You'll want something much better for you and Sam."

"Oh, we can worry about that later." Frodo gave only the most cursory look at the pantries and stoves.

Merry swallowed his response. It was barely three weeks after Frodo's letter, and Merry already had found him what he was convinced would be the perfect house. Frodo was clearly interested in it, but not for the usual reasons. The soundness of the walls, the amenities, the size of the rooms—all these were lost on him. It put Merry's nerves into a state, for it could only mean that Frodo expected to live here for the briefest period of time. Merry quelled his concerns, and carried on in his deliberately chatty manner.

He let Frodo out the back door, and divulged what he was sure would be his major selling points. "There's a nice big yard for Sam. Nothing to it but lawn now, but Sam will soon fix that."

"Yes," Frodo said, but he wasn't looking at the yard. He was looking at the belt of trees that surrounded the cottage. Merry couldn't help speculating about what Frodo must be thinking: who would notice my movements if I left by the back way? How much warning would I get if someone was coming up the road?

Merry took up the train of thought for him. "There's hardly any prospect, but you could thin out the trees if you wished. You're in a proper cocoon here, but that's what the cottage was built for: folk who wanted a quiet escape from the busyness of the Hall. That's the reason it's set so far back from the road; people will miss the house altogether unless they know where to look. It will also make you hard to find at night; I doubt anyone would be able to spot the place unless you left out a lantern to guide them."

Frodo was surveying the path to the road, which was visible only through a narrow gap in the thick hedge. He nodded appreciatively.

"And you've hardly any neighbors," Merry continued. "It wasn't a problem before, because no one lived here regularly. But you might spend some lonely days, as you're far enough away from the Hall to make drop-ins inconvenient. I suppose you could meet your closer neighbors in time. Nate Billowbuck's farm is a quarter of a mile south; he's the nearest, I think. There just aren't too many folk out this way, and no wonder. The Old Forest starts not far east of here. Do you remember that time we sneaked in for a look round? Oh, it must have been twenty years ago. Anyway, the gate we took through the Hedge is little more than a mile off. Not that you'll be wanting to pop into the Old Forest, of course. Still, the gate is generally kept in good order. Old Alaric sees to that."

As a matter of fact, the Hedge gate was in perfect working order. When he'd first checked out the cottage two weeks ago, Merry had fetched the key, and made sure of it. He was dismayed that the path leading to the Bonfire Glade had decayed to the extent that it had, but he was confident he could make out its general direction. Not that Frodo probably intended to depart through the Old Forest, but Merry wanted to keep his options open.

Frodo turned about in a circle, looking from the road to the low, roof-turved house, to the belt of trees that seemed to hold the yard and little cottage in the palm of its hand. Frodo met Merry's eye and smiled. It wasn't a happy smile; something in his gaze was already far away. Merry almost choked, and fought hard to maintain his semblance of cheerfulness.

Frodo, occupied with his private melancholy, appeared to notice nothing. He cleared his throat. "This is perfect, Merry. Thank you. I'll take it."

-0-0-0-

The months had fled by faster than Merry could have dreamed. Now, this very night, Frodo would take possession of the house he had purchased, intending to abandon, so many months ago. Merry's shoulders slumped as he crossed the fields from the stables to the house. He slipped in the back way, through the spinney. It was so dark under the trees, Merry could see nothing but the gleam of open lawn before him, guiding his steps.

He pushed open the front door, surprising Fatty. His cousin was arranging some knickknacks on a little table in the foyer. Fatty started so badly he nearly dropped the silver dish he was holding.

"Oi! You might have knocked, to give me warning. That would be something, wouldn't it? To convey Frodo's things safely from Bag End, only to shatter them here after they were carefully unpacked."

"I'm sorry." Merry stepped inside, and closed the door. He looked round at the mirror on the wall, and the vase of dried flowers in the center of the table Fatty was embellishing. "Fatty, you've made the place look lived-in already."

Fatty adjusted the placement of a decorative mug, a souvenir of Bilbo's from Lake Town. "You realize, of course, that we are completely mad. All this work, and he'll likely be gone in a week or two."

"I know. But it can't be helped. Frodo must go soon, if he's to beat the Fall weather."

"You're sure he's making for Rivendell? It seems awfully late in the year to start."

"That's where Sam thinks he's going, and he's generally right about these things. Now," Merry undid a few buttons on his topcoat. "What's next?"

"I've made up the fire, but I wasn't about to haul all that water by myself." Fatty tried to look annoyed, but his eyes twinkled. "Really, Merry, I ask you. _Three_ baths. What possessed you?"

Merry shrugged. "I wanted to pamper him. Frodo will see little of that for some time, I think."

"True enough." Fatty gave the arrangement a final tweak, and straightened. "What are you going to do if Gandalf has caught up with them? Make him bathe in the cauldron?"

"Gandalf can very well wait his turn until the others have done." Merry stopped, surprised at the sharp note in his voice.

Fatty burst into a laugh. "My goodness! You aren't best pleased with Gandalf these days, are you?"

Merry blushed. "I can't say that I am, considering the trouble he's caused."

"My dear Merry, I'm as dismal about Frodo leaving as you are. But you can't go blaming poor Gandalf. It was Bilbo's ring that started the business. The old wizard is probably saving Frodo's life; I hope you realize that."

Merry didn't answer. The idea of Frodo's life being in danger was not something he was ready to bandy about in ordinary conversation. "I'll help you with the water."

Fatty's concern turned out to be well founded. They were both red-cheeked and puffing by the time the second great cauldron was filled. The hearth had been expanded, amongst other improvements put in that summer, but two good-sized kettles were all that would fit over the kitchen fire.

On his final trip, Merry saw Fatty swinging the second full kettle over the flames. He therefore set his pair of full buckets next to the sink, ready for future use, then looked out the small, round window into inky darkness. "They should have been here by now."

Fatty clapped the dust from his knees as he rose. "I shouldn't worry. They're big lads. Probably Pippin is up to his eyeballs in ale at the _Golden Perch_, and the others can't shift him."

Merry fretted. "Doubtless you're right."

Fatty grinned, and nodded at the door. "Look, I'll keep the house warm. Why don't you go along and have supper at the Hall like you'd planned? You'll be leaving soon; I don't doubt you'll want to see everyone one last time."

"Of course." But Merry didn't want to see everyone. He had been preparing to leave for months. His messages were written and safely stowed away, to be delivered by Fatty a suitably safe interval after his departure. Tonight, he wanted to see Frodo. He couldn't forget the worry in Frodo's eyes when Gandalf had failed to appear for his birthday dinner. Gandalf wasn't usually late, was he? He often showed up unannounced, but did he ever neglect to arrive if he was expected? Merry worried his lip. Frodo would know the answer, but Frodo was late, too.

Merry made his decision. "Fatty, do you mind if I borrow Cully? I'd rather not take Dandy out tonight, on the off chance that we do get off tomorrow."

Fatty looked surprised. "You want to ride to the Hall?"

"It's faster."

Fatty waved. "Take him. He could use the exercise."

-0-0-0-

Cully was a gentle, friendly beast. He trotted along briskly, puffing a little from his lack of training, seemingly untroubled by the shallow banks of fog that increased as Merry approached the River. The enormous burrow of Brandy Hall sheltered Buckleberry village from the River—but Merry did not go to the Hall. Scolding himself for being a worrywart, he followed the lane past Buck Hill and down to the ferry landing. The ferryboat lay at rest, unattended.

Well, Merry could help Frodo this much at least. He walked Cully onto the ferry's deck, then unhitched it and began poling to the other side. For some reason, the River was largely free of fog, but the opposite bank was a shroud of white. Merry only saw the white bollards when they were yards away, and adjusted his angle to bring the ferry to the dock. He made everything fast, then looked into the fog. Useless. He couldn't see more than two yards ahead of him.

He led the pony onto the bank. "Come along, Cully. We'll see if your pony sense will keep us on the road." Merry wound his scarf around his neck, as the fingers of fog were chill. He then mounted up and took Cully down the short lane to the Stock Road. There, he paused.

The night was quiet, sounds dulled by the fog. So far, Merry could hardly have missed his party. They would have to have gone quite astray if they didn't take the Stock Road. Resolutely, Merry turned Cully's head north, and clucked. The pony walked up the road, his ears twitching but his pace steady. Stock was four miles away. Merry rode slowly, listening intently.

He heard the noise the same moment that Cully whickered: the creak of a wagon wheel. Merry pulled Cully to a halt, the better to listen. Faintly, a steady clop and creak of harness penetrated the fog. Merry canted his head. The sound was definitely behind him. He paused, looking into the blind whiteness. Then he guided Cully round.

"Probably a false alarm," he murmured. "But we're bound to check."

He hadn't realized he was so near the Ferry Lane. Suddenly the ghostly shape of the white posts marking the lane sprang up on his left. At the same time, he realized a wagon was stopped just at the turning of the lane.

"Hallo there!" hollered a voice, so gruffly that Cully snorted and stopped short. A dark shape moved belligerently from the front of the wagon towards Merry. "Now then, don't you come a step nearer! What do you want, and where are you going?"

-0-0-0-

When Merry returned to the little house in Crickhollow, his cloak was damp from fog. He stamped his feet on the front mat, stopping to inhale deeply the delicious aroma of Fatty's cooking. He sighed, and let the bulky burden he'd carried on his shoulder from the stable slide to the floor.

The noise brought Fatty running. He burst into the front hall, just as Merry wearily hung his cloak and muffler upon the pegs. Fatty stopped short, seeing the cluster of bags that Merry had dropped. "What is that?"

"Our saddlebags." Merry bent to retrieve his basket from the bench. "And _these_ are mushrooms for our dinner, a welcome gift presented to Frodo from Mrs. Maggot."

"You found him, then!" Fatty snatched the basket eagerly. "Is he coming along?"

"Yes. They'll all be here in half an hour, I expect."

"All? Gandalf, too?"

"No. Just the three."

Fatty stared at the pile on the floor, which Merry stooped to gather up. "The mushrooms I understand. But why did you bring up the saddlebags? They'll give away the game, unless you chuck them in a cupboard before Frodo gets here. _If_ you can find an empty one, that is. This is hardly Bag End."

Merry rose, recalling the black shape across the River, and the thrill of fear in the others' voices. He smiled sadly; he didn't doubt Frodo's stay would be shorter than even they had feared. "Don't worry, Fatty. We won't need to hide them for long. I have a feeling we'll be packing tonight."


End file.
